


(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

by imaginary_iby



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were just dancing to the Stones in your socks, how serious an operation can this be?” - Hidden beneath deadly skills and murky secrets, lies the goofy heart of a man who likes to do his washing in the nude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me.

“Doop-doop, doopy-doop, a doopy doopy doop doop, doopy-doop.”

Danny didn’t drop his malasada on the garage floor, but it was a near thing. There, right before him, swayed and shuffled Steve McGarrett, hardened SEAL and BAMF-extraordinaire. 

The curve of said-SEAL’s naked tuchas bounced a little to the left, a little to the right, guided by the beat of the music coming from the Marquis’ speakers. The chorus kicked in, and fluffy white socks, (trimmed with a Navy logo – _naturally_ ) tried their best to moonwalk across the floor. 

It wasn’t until a particularly enthusiastic guitar-riff that Steve shimmied his way over to the door, apparently having been aware of Danny’s presence all the while.

He didn’t look even remotely bashful at being caught singing and dancing. The bastard.

“You’re naked,” Danny said, scrunching his malasada in his fist so tightly that jam spewed out.

Steve’s eyebrows wiggled. “Well, I’m wearing socks.” He stuck out a foot, giving it a jaunty shake.

As if Danny could possibly not have noticed. Miles and miles of muscled skin, and the goof had to go and wear the dorkiest socks known to man. 

“They ruin the line of your ensemble,” Danny quipped, watching as Steve moonwalked away again. 

One of those sinfully tattooed hips came to rest against the washing machine, and he sprinkled powder in before slamming the lid shut. Task complete, he turned and crossed his arms. Any damage that the socks did to his appearance, (which was already negligible, to be frank) was immediately undone. 

“You didn’t seem to mind last night,” Steve said, but the music swelled just as the machine began to gurgle.

Danny twitched his ears. “What was that?”

“I said,” Steve shouted, uncoiling and stalking closer once more, “that you didn’t seem to mind last night!”

Oh god. Last night. Eye-opening nakedness and spectacular sex on the bedroom floor – but damn if Danny had been patient enough to kick his socks off.

First time jitters. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

“Yes. Well,” he blustered. “That was different. And anyway, this isn’t about that. This is about the fact that you, Steven J. McGarrett, do the washing in your socks and boxers. Except you’re not even wearing any boxers. You’re also a terrible dancer. And I hate your hair.”

Lies. Lies and slander – the sway of those hips may have been goofy, but Steve plus nakedness was a heady combination. And as for that hopeless brown mop, all sleep-ruffled and sex-tugged… well, Danny was only human.

Steve shimmied closer, smirking up a storm, feelings not even remotely injured. His smirk faded a little when he sized Danny up, Danny’s perch on the garage step giving him a height that Steve was unused to. He leaned in with endearing awkwardness, bumping their noses together hopefully.

It was a ruse.

As soon as Danny felt appropriately distracted by affection and kisses, Steve struck, stealing the squashed malasada. He pulled back from the kiss with a wet pop, and shoved the tasty treat into his mouth in one go.

“Hey hey hey!” Danny yelped, before giving in with a sigh. It was hard to feel cranky, not when Steve grinned as he chewed, cheeks all plump from food and happiness. On anybody else, it would have been mildly disgusting. On Steve, it worked. 

“Aw, damn it,” Steve said, even as he licked his tongue along his teeth, making sure to catch every last sprinkle of sugar. “Got a bit of jam on my socks.”

Danny wondered where, exactly, Señor Bypass-Surgery had disappeared to. Not that he’d have traded this goof in for that one, but still, it was a mystery. He was startled from his thoughts by the sight of Steve, who had begun to hop over to the machine. 

_Hop-hop-skip_ , before he caught one foot in his hand and peeled the sock off. _Hop-hop-stumble-skip_ , and there went the other one. The be-jammed socks were thrown into the machine without a care in the world, and it was all Danny could do to refrain from commenting that they needed to be turned the right way in.

“You should really use a linen-bag,” he said, which, upon reflection, wasn’t much better. “And also, wow, you’re really naked.”

Faced with such skin and goofiness, it was inevitable that things devolved from there. This didn’t stop Danny from being surprised, thirty minutes later, when he found himself blinking up at the garage ceiling, sweaty back plastered to the hood of the Marquis. 

Off to the side, the washing machine grumbled to a stop, giving a delicate beep that was at odds with its true nature. 

“Stay,” Danny said softly, when Steve sat up beside him, rolling off the hood with surprising grace.

“They’ll get all musty,” Steve replied, but he lessened the blow by trailing a finger across Danny’s belly as he walked past.

With a groan, Danny rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and watching as Steve opened the machine. “You care about mustiness? You were just dancing to the Stones in your socks, how serious an operation can this be?”

Steve’s mournful hum was the last thing that Danny had been expecting. He rolled off the hood with alacrity and padded to the machine. 

“Oh babe,” he said softly, trying not to laugh. “Did you forget to…”

“No! I checked!”

Well, Danny had tried, that had to count for something - he let out a hoot of laughter, all but collapsing into Steve’s side.

Steve lifted out a pair of cargo pants, frowning at the forest of tissue-lint that covered them from top to bottom. “I checked all the pockets, I swear.”

Danny leaned in to inspect the depths of the machine, patting Steve on the bum in the process. “Hey,” he said brightly, “at least your socks are clean.”

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by this (slightly spoilery) [pic](https://twitter.com/PLenkov/status/367486057450729472/photo/1) from Lenkov.
> 
> Tuchas - slang for ass. :D


End file.
